Minimum Safe Distance
by Annie2
Summary: All roads lead to Buffy
1. Default Chapter

MINIMUM SAFE DISTANCE  
  
By Annie  
  
Rated - R; language  
  
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, UPN and others own Buff and company; which is too bad.  
  
Spoiler: The Gift, vaguely  
  
Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net  
  
MINIMUM SAFE DISTANCE  
  
  
  
"You have now reached minimum safe distance."  
  
As the spaceship's computer informed the hero that he was far enough away, after setting the self-destruct codes, Spike snorted disdainfully and upended the liquor bottle, draining the last of the cheap bourbon from it.  
  
He was ready to throw it at the television; as usual, there was nothing on, and he had settled for this B-grade sci-fi flick. So, he guessed, the hero was getting away after all. The irony of his entertainment selection settled on him.  
  
"Minimum safe distance," Spike mumbled dangerously under his breath. "No such fucking thing," he declared, finally just throwing the bottle at the screen anyway.  
  
He missed. Too much bourbon tonight, Spikey, the TV taunted him subliminally. On the visible screen, the mother ship had blown up spectacularly, evil aliens all gone, and, of course, the hero now went on his merry way, primed for a sequel.  
  
Spike got up drunkenly and kicked the television from its' stand. Not enough bourbon, apparently.  
  
"No minimum safe distance for you," the vampire sneered. Or for me, either, he thought.  
  
Not that he hadn't tried, of course. After experiencing the most crushing pain he could ever have imagined, after Buffy..fell, he had tried his own version of the minimum safe distance thing. After the funeral, after Littler Summers had been hauled away overseas to her Pseudo-Dad, Giles had left, high-tailed it back to England. Spike had almost laughed; The Ripper himself, torn up so much by his Slayer's death that he couldn't even bear to stay in the same country.  
  
Spike secretly agreed. He left. He went South. He had been in South America before, with Dru, but that fact alone made him stop when he reached the Gulf of Mexico. Plus, he was running out of money. No one paid him for information anymore, so he was reduced to being little more than a common thief, now, as well as being a vagabond vampire feeding on demon blood.  
  
Still, it wasn't enough.  
  
There is no minimum safe distance.  
  
She kept pulling him back, back to her, and he traveled it a mile of road and a bottle of cheap booze at a time.  
  
The Gulf was nice, the casinos discharged drunken couples at all hours of the night; he was able to cajole some small amounts of cash from those who had gotten the better of the gaming tables, but more than once, Spike contemplated staying out until sunrise and simply walking into the Gulf to fry in the morning sun.  
  
No matter how much he drank, he couldn't bring himself to do it.  
  
No matter how much he drank, this excruciating ache stayed with him.  
  
The aged cemeteries in New Orleans yielded all manner of demons on which to feast and vent his rage, and so he dallied there a while, but still, after a few weeks, he had to move again. Back.  
  
He cursed the damnable chip every night. He wanted something human. But he knew it wasn't the chip stopping him now.  
  
He just wanted Buffy back.  
  
The ache drew him, inexorably NorthWest - back to the Hellmouth, back to this bloody, lonely crypt near her grave.  
  
He saw Riley and his friends there, once, paying respects; Mr. White Bread, who obviously didn't even know how to fuck a woman properly in order to keep her, let alone love her well enough. A murderous rage had swept over Spike that night, and he quelled it with more bourbon, feeling the enemy in his head tingling with the want to torture him.  
  
So he was back. No such thing as minimum safe distance.  
  
But, he would set his own self-destruct codes, or die trying.  
  
Time to go out and get more booze, he thought now, as he surveyed the broken bits of his only escape from reality.  
  
He left the crypt and made a wrong turn, whether deliberately or just because of the booze he would never know, but he suddenly realized he was in the wrong section of the cemetery - wrong for him, anyway. He shouldn't - no, couldn't - be near her grave, but he was. It was right over there. After that day, the day they had put her there in the dirt, he had made sure he never went near it again.  
  
Minimum safe distance.  
  
No such fucking thing.  
  
Well, she had drawn him back from trying to escape Sunnydale, so why not?  
  
He couldn't conceive of hurting anymore inside without simply dropping into dust, so why not?  
  
He would have been holding his breath, if he had any.  
  
There it, she was.  
  
So much for his minimum safe distance theory.  
  
Spike dropped to his knees in pain. He would soon have to go out and just kill someone, anyone, in the hope that the pain in his head would overshadow this incredible pain in the rest of him.  
  
He didn't want to get any closer, but his body moved of its' own volition.  
  
He crawled, cold tears falling from his face to the slightly warmer ground. He reached out a hand and touched the grass covering her tentatively.  
  
Rage overcame him and he snarled, vamp face coming unbidden. He leaped forward and found his vamp hands digging in the grass.  
  
No, defenses down. Actually, defenses non-existent in this case. He stopped digging, pushing the rage away.  
  
This wouldn't work. Buffy wasn't one of the undead, and after all these months, it wouldn't do to see her now.  
  
He might as well go back to his crypt and bloody stake himself.  
  
But first - vamp face gone, cold tears still in his startlingly blue eyes, he lay on the grass above her, head to head, heart to heart. He closed his eyes tightly, mind seeing down into the earth, memory bringing her face before him.  
  
"Come back, Summers." 


	2. Chapter 2

TOTAL RECALL  
  
Minimum safe distance II  
  
By Annie  
  
Rated: PG Spoilers: The Gift; Go Fish? Disclaimer: don't, won't and can't ever own 'em. Third paragraph thanks to Miranda. ( Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net  
  
  
  
Darkness reigned rampant in her world, and had for some time now. Of course, she was aware of this only subconsciously. There was no conscious. She was at rest, in peaceful warm darkness, enveloping all that she was, a safe womb at the other end of her life. No conscious memory of family, Scoobies, lovers or demons. Just, finally, peaceful darkness. Perhaps she'd really had a death wish. Death had been her gift to the world; but it was a gift to herself as well.  
  
But, nothing really lasts.  
  
Funny, out of all the others - the friends she'd loved, the Watcher she'd trusted, the sister she'd died for - it was Spike's voice that she had heard, and his pain that had called her back from that quiet place where she had been pleased to rest.  
  
Not the broken-hearted tears of anyone else she had known, but the cold tear and the whispered wish of a long-dead poet.  
  
Her life had not flashed before her eyes, cliché-like, when she jumped from the tower. Her heart was filled with Dawn, and when she actually leaped into the tangled dimensions, there was only light and energy, enfolding her, bathing her - killing her.  
  
Or so it should have been.  
  
Her subconscious knew, somehow, in this engulfing emptiness. Of course, the ritual needed blood - Summers blood. But it needed Dawn's - the Key's - blood. The Slayer's was close enough to do the job, but other factors had to be considered.  
  
Shocking fall. Heart stopped. Blood of the Slayer, that had been coursing through Buffy, now ceased its' travels. Another Slayer would not be called; this had transpired once before and Faith was still out there, somewhere.  
  
Hence the twist; this Slayer has already died, but has been brought back.  
  
No precedent for this existed. Having died once, and been brought back, could the Slayer cease living yet again?  
  
Dimensional energies mixing with Slayer blood. Cataclysmic.  
  
The darkness soothed, nurtured.  
  
After a time, she heard a whisper - at least her subconscious told her that she did.  
  
"Come back, Summers."  
  
Life ran backward in her mind, memory in crazy rewind; Dawn, friends, lovers, demons, Watcher, Mom, Dad, college, high school, grade school, tot years, birth..  
  
She gasped suddenly in the dark, reliving her very first breath.  
  
"Come back, Summers." She had definitely heard it, subconscious, conscious and all.  
  
But she liked the darkness, and tried to remain. No use. The echo of the voice - Spike's voice - reverberated over and over in her head.  
  
She might as well. Apparently, she was doomed to existence.  
  
Strange, though, Buffy thought, moving her arms and legs fractionally. They felt like they were asleep. Memory crashed in on her all at once, and she pushed up instinctually with her arms, encountering what she knew must be a coffin lid. HER coffin lid.  
  
Thoughts raced; have to get out, have to conserve air; am I strong enough; AM I DEAD??  
  
She pushed on the barrier above her, mind screaming, unaware that she was screaming out loud as well.  
  
Two arm-lengths above her, Spike's eyes flew open. 


	3. Chapter 3

LIBERATION  
  
Minimum Safe Distance 3  
  
By Annie  
  
Rated: PG  
  
Disclaimer: Still don't own 'em.  
  
Spoilers: The Gift  
  
Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net  
  
  
  
  
  
....Spike's eyes flew open.  
  
His head snapped up away from the cool grass. No way he'd really heard that, he told himself.  
  
"Gone 'round the bloody bend, have you, Spike?" he muttered.  
  
But, actually, he could still hear it - his vampire senses were a hundred times better than human, and he could still hear the screaming. And thumping.  
  
"No," he whispered in denial, even as he started clawing at the grass and the dirt beneath it. Thoughts raced through his suddenly-sober mind - This can't be happening. This must be happening. I can't dig fast enough. There isn't much air in a coffin.  
  
He was on his feet then, running crazily to the other side of the cemetery, toward the old groundskeeper's shed there. The door was padlocked, which meant less than nothing to Spike. He ripped it off its' hinges without a thought, flinging it somewhere behind him.  
  
His vampiric night vision allowed him to locate the thing he wanted in a few precious seconds. A shovel. Spike grabbed it and raced out of the shed, running headlong into another vampire. He'd had a run-in with this one last week, and it had ended in kind of a draw. The demon obviously wanted a rematch.  
  
Spike barely slowed his pace, he swung the shovel in a vicious arc, beheading the other vamp before he could even register what was happening. Spike didn't even look back to see the dust.  
  
"Sod off," Spike thought. "No bloody time for that."  
  
He was going so fast he almost overshot Buffy's grave. He wasted one second to listen again. Gasping little sounds beneath him. More thumping.  
  
He dug frantically, taking full advantage of his supernatural strength. In a bare few minutes, the shovel met something solid, jarring his arms painfully. The vault. He had forgotten the coffin would be inside a vault.  
  
Spike snarled as the rage came back, vamping him.  
  
To hell with it - he needed the strength of the rage to help him. He cleared off as much of the dirt as possible from the vault. The little gasping sounds were getting slightly weaker, as was the thumping. Buffy would pass out. Or die again. If she wasn't a zombie or something else atrocious already.  
  
He straddled the open grave and reached down to give a frantic yank. The vault lid didn't give as easily as had the door to the shed, but it was no match for Spike's determination and strength.  
  
It flew open in his hands, revealing the mahogany casket nestled inside. No doubt about the thumping now, and besides, the polished lid of the coffin was about to crack open under the Slayer's onslaught.  
  
Spike thought grimly that the vault lid would have posed a considerable obstacle to her freedom. He reached down uncomfortably and felt along the side of the casket for the latch. Simultaneously with the lock's release, a Slayer fist punched through the wood beneath him.  
  
Spike hauled it open furiously, letting the cool air inside. He forgot he was in vamp face.  
  
Buffy gulped in large breaths of fresh air, still trying to scream, force of habit making her feel in her clothing for a stake.  
  
"Buffy, no!" Spike shouted, de-vamping. He didn't know if they had buried a stake with her, but he wasn't taking any chances. Not now, despite his earlier decision to stake himself in his crypt.  
  
He reached in and pulled her up forcibly, stopping her screams by placing a hand over her mouth as gently as possible, which was difficult to say the least. She was like a wild cat.  
  
He was afraid to release her, and let her run screaming and confused through the cemetery. On the other hand, if he tried too hard to subdue her, the bleeding chip would fire, and he would reflexively release her anyway.  
  
He managed to get a hold on her from behind, pulling her against him, keeping a hand on her mouth and getting his face close to her ear. He stilled the tremendous, albeit cautious, joy that was threatening to overcome him. What he really wanted to do was turn her around and touch her face. Look into her eyes and be sure it was her. Somehow, she smelled good, and his subconscious registered this fact despite the circumstances.  
  
"Stop it, Pet! Slayer! It's Spike! I can't hurt you!"  
  
Buffy stopped struggling then, trying to clear her mind, warm breath washing over his cold hand, so that even as she quieted, he was reluctant to take the hand away, reluctant to let her out of his grasp. But he did anyway, and turned her to face him.  
  
"What's going on, Spike?" she railed at him. "What did you do to me?"  
  
She was ready to fight, and he wanted her to stay calm. His mind was reeling in aftershock, still trying to fathom if this was real or not. Maybe grief had made him delusional as well as suicidal. He stepped back a few paces, out of reach of her fists.  
  
Minimum safe distance.  
  
Never mind. He had to know if he was crazy.  
  
"Hit me," he requested simply. "I just need to know if you're really here."  
  
He stepped forward again - quick jab to the nose.  
  
"Ow! Okay," he said, stepping back again. "Don't you remember anything? Anything at all, Love?"  
  
"Anything about wha...?" she started to ask, and abruptly the confusion and fog dropped from her face.  
  
"Dawn," she breathed.  
  
"Niblet's fine," Spike hastened to assure her. "We're all fine - except you. And Glory."  
  
Her eyes got a touch of panic in them as he spoke the Hellgod's name.  
  
"She came back anyway." She guessed.  
  
Spike shook his head. 'No. You bashed her almost to a pulp, remember? Then she changed to Ben and you lost the taste for it. You went to get Dawn instead. But Glory's not coming back. Your Watcher saw to that well enough."  
  
"I jumped," she remembered.  
  
Spike nodded as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket and shook one out. His hands were shaking. He lit up.  
  
"And you died," he finished for her, exhaling his first puff toward his feet.  
  
He went on then, to bring her up to speed. "Anya was dumped on by some blocks and stuff, but she was okay then. Dawn's cuts all healed, and after the funeral -" he almost choked on the word, stopping to cover it up by taking another drag on the cigarette - "Big Daddy came and took her to Barcelona to live with him. The little witch wanted to keep her, but.."  
  
He stopped. Buffy had started shaking uncontrollably. Shock. She was going into shock.  
  
"I'm cold," she whispered, starting to crumble before him, falling to her hands and knees on the ground, retching dryly.  
  
Spike threw the cigarette aside, pulling off his leather coat, bending down to wrap her in it, picking her up gently and then racing for his crypt. 


	4. Chapter 4

HARMONY HELPS OUT  
  
Minimum Safe Distance 4  
  
By Annie  
  
Rated: PG (yes, still)  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine to do with as I please; so sad.  
  
Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net  
  
  
  
He blanked things out of his mind deliberately as he sped toward his crypt. Never in a million nights had he ever thought he would be carrying the Slayer in his arms. Not with helpful intentions anyway.  
  
Spike ran right over to his 'bed' with her, laying her there gently, removing his leather coat from around her and replacing it with a comforter. He ran to a corner, where he had an old chest with a few more comforters stored, and put them on her as well. For once, Harmony's love of luxury had come in handy.  
  
Buffy was still shaking, although this appeared to have stabilized somewhat. At least it didn't seem to be getting any worse.  
  
Spike was at a total loss. Other than keeping a person warm, he had no idea how to treat shock. If that was indeed the problem. For one horrible second, the thought crossed his mind that this was some kind of cosmic mistake, that Buffy would now disintegrate before his eyes, simply because this wasn't supposed to be happening.  
  
Oh, well, they did live in the Hellmouth, and she was the Slayer. Who knew?  
  
He had a barrel of room temperature rainwater over in a corner. It looked a little stale - smelled it, too - but it would have to do. He grabbed a shirt and ripped a piece of material from it, dipping it in the water and running back over to her.  
  
She had her eyes closed, and was groaning softly; "Come back, Summers - Come back, Summers," over and over.  
  
Spike frowned, even as he leaned over her and began to dab her face gently with the wet cloth. Could she have heard him, somehow?  
  
She was still shaking, but at least she felt like she was the right temperature. Burning hot on Spike's hand as he ran the back of it gently down the side of her face.  
  
He crawled up next to her and pulled her in close to try to warm her, some long-dead instinct taking over before he remembered that he had no warmth to give. This realization only caused him more pain, made him aware of the vast space between the Slayer and himself.  
  
He sighed resignedly and kept up his ministrations, speaking to her softly, calling her Buffy instead of Pet or Slayer. He wanted her to come to herself.  
  
The shaking had almost subsided, and she was laying quietly with her eyes closed, trying, Spike assumed, to assimilate what had happened in the last half hour.  
  
He had just stood up to go and re-wet the cloth when the door to his crypt burst open and a blonde figure raced in, closing it again behind her.  
  
Harmony - returned from who-knew-where.  
  
"Spikey," she gushed, and then stopped when she saw the carefully- bundled Slayer in his bed.  
  
"Perfect," Spike muttered, "just bloody perfect."  
  
"Oh, Spike! You've got her!" Harmony cried in elation. "Isn't she supposed to be dead? Finally, no more hiding out! How did you do it? Is she drugged? Did someone help you? Can I have a taste, too?"  
  
She was rushing over to see the captured Slayer. As she passed him, Spike reached out and stopped her very effectively by grabbing her by the throat. (Déjà vu - hadn't he done this once or twice before?)  
  
Harmony gasped in pain and surprise. The look of hatred on Spike's face scared her more than the hand on her throat.  
  
"Spike," she tried to speak.  
  
He only squeezed harder. "Shut. Up." He commanded her harshly, leaving no room for argument. He went on then, making sure his tone of voice told her he meant business.  
  
"Listen to me. I won't leave her here alone, and I don't have the time to explain things to any bleedin' idiot who happens to walk in the door. I am just going to tell you what to do, and you are going to do it, immediately, without uttering so much as one more word. Understand? Just nod."  
  
Harmony did, not trusting him to refrain from ripping off her head right there on the spot. He seemed a bit frantic.  
  
"Good then. You will go and find the witch. Willow. Tell her she has to come here as fast as her little feet will carry her. Alone. Understand?"  
  
Harmony nodded again, still petrified. Over on the bed, Buffy was mumbling, something about coming back.  
  
"And one more thing," Spike said before he let go of her, "Don't even think of touching any of the Slayer's friends. Deliver your message, and then go back to whatever Hellhole you've been hiding out in. If you don't do exactly as I said, I will find you. Got it, Pet?"  
  
Spike smiled coldly and flung her in the general direction of the door, through which she scampered in fright.  
  
Help would come now. In the meantime, he wanted to take care of her the best he could. With Harm out the door, he turned his full attention back to Buffy. She had totally stopped shaking now, and was almost sleeping peacefully, still mumbling under her breath. He heard his name and leaned in closer to listen.  
  
"Spike,' she was whispering. "Spike brought me, called me." Then she was muttering incoherently.  
  
He touched her forehead briefly. "Oh, Slayer. How could I have not known it was you all along?" He felt an uncontrollable desire to crawl back up there with her, touch her lingeringly, kiss her face - with his cold lips.  
  
Spike's heart dropped painfully. He laid his cool cheek against her warm one and then stepped outside reluctantly to wait for the witch.  
  
Minimum safe distance. 


	5. Chapter 5

REUNION  
  
Minimum Safe Distance 5 By Annie  
  
Rated: PG ( yes, still, rating R in part 6, I promise)  
  
Disclaimer: Still don't own them; that honor still belongs to the mighty JW  
  
Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net  
  
  
  
Spike heard her coming well before she actually arrived at his crypt.  
  
He was leaning against the door, chain-smoking, one ear listening for sounds from within, one tuned to the outside, waiting for Willow.  
  
He heard the car stopping outside the cemetery, heard her hurried steps as she raced his way, probably trying to avoid any rampaging demons as well. The Scoobies, and Spike himself, had tried to keep the demon population down, but news travels fast, and most of the denizens of the underworld had already found out that the Hellmouth was minus its' Slayer. Even now, Spike caught sight and awful scent of something or other cowered behind a tilting tombstone about a hundred and fifty yards away - right in Willow's path.  
  
"Hey!" Spike called, reluctant to leave his doorway, ever conscious of Buffy inside.  
  
The putrid-looking thing turned its' head in Spike's general direction.  
  
"Bugger off, mate," Spike warned him dangerously. "You don't want to be in the middle of this."  
  
The demon slunk off just as Willow came running into view, breathing hard, trying to watch the cemetery around her and relieved immeasurably when she spied Spike waiting for her.  
  
Willow stopped gratefully in front of him.  
  
"Spike, thank heavens it's you!" She cried. " I was so afraid this was some kind of trick, and then I was afraid not to come. Harmony said you captured Buffy, and I thought she was crazy, but she looked so scared.."  
  
Spike stopped her with a raised hand, taking one last drag from his umpteenth cigarette and flipping it away. "She's in here," he said simply, pushing open the door, allowing Willow to precede him into the crypt.  
  
She stopped in shock, and he walked into her, but then she ran over to where Buffy lay. "Oh, my God, Buffy! Buffy!" Willow started to cry, moving the comforters aside slightly to see if her best friend was really there, and really all right. Buffy groaned slightly, said, 'Spike," and seemed to fall back into her healing sleep. Willow grabbed her hand and held it tightly, only then turning back to the vampire beside her.  
  
"How?" she asked, at a loss. So many times she had been prepared to do a resurrection spell, and every time the thought of a damaged and possibly deranged Buffy had stopped her.  
  
Spike shrugged. "I don't know. I have been thinking about it, though. Maybe, since we live here in the Hellmouth, and maybe, as her death was not exactly a natural thing, or because she already died once, I don't know." His voice softened then. "I never question good fortune, Love."  
  
Willow looked at Buffy's face once more, as if to reassure herself once again that she wasn't dreaming. "Is she all right? I mean, is she Buffy? You know what I mean."  
  
He ran a hand through the platinum hair anxiously. "I think so. She wasn't at first, but then it all seemed to come back to her, and then she went into this shock, or whatever it is. I'm hoping this is just some kind of healing thing."  
  
He went on to tell her the incredible story of what had happened, Willow all the while stroking Buffy's hand and arm. "Luckily, that empty- headed bint happened along, because I couldn't leave her here to go and find anyone. I'm not sure what we should do, or even if we should do anything."  
  
Willow smiled gently. "I'm not sure we should do anything at all either, except to get her to a warmer place, where we can take better care of her."  
  
"Yours and Tara's place then?" he asked.  
  
Willow shook her head. "No, I don't want to take the chance of anyone stopping for a visit and seeing her until we know she's okay and we can figure out how this happened." She thought a few seconds and then stood. "I know. The apartment over the magic Shop. It's furnished and heated and all, and we can take her there. Anya won't mind. She's been trying to rent it out but no one wants to be there, I guess, because of the shop. Anyway, I can call Tara and Xander and Anya from the shop to come and meet us and bring food. I still have a key for the back door. Will you carry her to my car?"  
  
"I would carry her to bloody China if I had to, Pet," Spike assured her, leaning over to bundle his Slayer up in the soft comforters, picking her up effortlessly and pulling the warm body close to him.  
  
Willow led the way to her car, and Spike sat in the back with Buffy, still holding her to himself, reveling in the warmth and closeness of her.  
  
Within a half hour or so, the Slayer was carefully ensconced in a nice warm bed, and Willow was steeping some chicken boullion with some healing and calming herbs, in preparation for Buffy's return to wakefulness. She was still mumbling in her sleep, still repeating the words, 'Come back Summers,' interspersed with an occasional 'Spike.'  
  
Tara had arrived quickly, with Xander and Anya right behind her. After she got the brew going, and had made sure Buffy was comfortable in bed, Willow had gone back down into the Magic Shop and called Giles, who promised that he would be on the next flight over. He would wait until he saw the Slayer personally before reporting it to the Council. Not that it would matter. Buffy wouldn't work for them anyway, but it would be one heck of a story for the Slayer annuals.  
  
Spike spent an hour or so pacing around in the living room of the big apartment, occasionally glancing into the bedroom, where one of the women was always sitting on the bed with Buffy, talking to her quietly and trying to wake her up. Spike wanted that job desperately, but he and Xander had been relegated to the other room, and so he spent the time retelling the story for Xander.  
  
Willow appeared suddenly in the bedroom doorway. "She's awake," she told them excitedly. Spike and Xander raced for the bedroom, Spike standing in the doorway watching.  
  
Minimum safe distance.  
  
The Slayer was indeed awake, talking weakly with Willow and Tara, Anya and Xander standing close and listening raptly. She was relating the same resurrection tale, only from her own point of view. Willow and Tara hugged her, made her drink the healing soup Willow had made, and then started to go and make tea for her.  
  
'Will," Buffy stopped her friend in the bedroom doorway, looking like she was trying to climb out of the big bed. "I need to talk to Spike, is he here?"  
  
Willow ran to the bed, gently pushing Buffy back into it. "I'll get him for you, Buffy, he's just there in the other room. You stay right where you are for now," the redhead insisted.  
  
But when Willow went to get him, Spike was gone. 


	6. Chapter 6

Warmth  
  
Minimum Safe Distance 6  
  
By Annie  
  
Rated: R Disclaimer: Not mine; not making money; just having fun Spoilers: Out Of My Mind; Intervention; The Gift Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net  
  
  
  
The door to the crypt burst open with a resounding crash, reminiscent of the old days, when the Big Bad and the Slayer were mortal enemies. Even after years of dancing around each other, a nagging remnant of self- preservation made Spike jump. He had been pacing circles in thought for quite a while now. He had to decide whether to stay in Sunnydale or leave altogether - for good, mostly his own good - and that was entirely dependent upon how Buffy felt.  
  
He turned to face her now, ill at ease, which was usually the case around her, except when they had been fighting. Back then, everything had been so cut and dried. But now.  
  
Now he simply greeted her calmly. "Slayer," he said, as if bursting unannounced into his crypt was an everyday occurrence, which in years past it practically had been.  
  
"Spike," she replied in turn, equally calm, and Spike had to resist the urge to leap across the room and hold her in joyous welcome.  
  
"You left," Buffy pointed out needlessly, as she approached him slowly. He smelled shampoo, soap and perfume; she had taken a shower and the image of a wet, naked Buffy distracted him momentarily.  
  
Spike shrugged. "The Scoobies seemed to have everything well enough in hand. I was planning to go back tonight to see how you were." He nodded toward the door. "It is dawn, and I've no desire to turn into a sodding signal flare!"  
  
"Well, there is that," Buffy agreed. "I just wanted to talk to you, and Will said you were gone. Let me tell you, this being back is something freaky. Is that how it was with you? You know, when Dru.."  
  
Spike reached for a cigarette, keeping an eye on her as he lit up. "I told you before, what a profound experience becoming a vampire was. I can't actually equate it with this for you, as I wasn't deceased for all that long. I'm thinking this must be as deeply moving an experience as anything that could ever happen. I know I was bloody well moved tonight." He told her, taking another drag, watching her come a step closer, senses on high alert at her nearness.  
  
"I don't know how it happened." Buffy admitted. She went on in an attempt to describe the warmth and peace of the darkness enfolding her, tried to make him understand how nice it was to just be there. "Just floating," she was saying, still coming closer a step at a time. "Just warm, velvet blackness around me, protecting me. I liked it there. I wanted to stay. I heard you. Somehow, I heard you, and I can't explain it, and I'm not even sure I want to. I did want to thank you. You got me out. Out of the blackness and out of the ground. I wanted to see you, to make sure you knew how I felt. You're not a monster, not anymore. And you haven't been for some time."  
  
Spike was edging back away from her all the while she spoke, matching one step back for every one of hers that moved her forward. He had to keep his minimum safe distance, or run the risk of losing control. And not vamp control either - just control of the tremendous urge to take her, love her.  
  
This action of his was not lost on the Slayer.  
  
"Spike, I didn't come here to fight. There's no more fighting with you, not after all you've done for Dawn, and me. Why are you backing away? Stop it."  
  
"Bloody hell, Slayer!" Spike raged suddenly, crushing the smoke out viciously on the crypt floor. "Why?! Think about it! I come to the Hellmouth with the love of my life, just want to stay a bit and cause some commotion, kill myself another Slayer - and guess what? Years later, I'm still here. Can't cause any kind of trouble to speak of, not since I picked up this bleedin' little piece of Army surplus in my head. Lost Dru. Can't stomach Harmony. And not only have I not killed the Slayer - I fell in love with her. Do you know what that means? Me! The Big Bad - a laughing stock. And everyone knows! The Slayer's doormat. Drusilla knew. She tried to tell me. I even practically told Harmony myself after that Initiative doc pretended to take out this sodding piece of crap! Dawn knew, the Scoobies, Ripper, even you knew, because I told you, Buffy. You went to Glory's flat to kill me, because you thought I would tell her the Little Bit was the Key. I had to get the bloody piss knocked out of me before you would even consider that I just might be on your side. Then you at least started to be nice to me. Then you go and die. Pretty permanent way to leave a bloke flat, Pet."  
  
He stopped for breath and she moved still closer to him.  
  
"You have no idea," he continued, a bit calmer now, bitter in his cold, still heart at the thought that nothing could ever be with her. "Dru said I was all covered with you, and she was right. You were gone for good and I was still covered with you - waking, sleeping - I wanted to bloody stake myself, because no matter where I went, I couldn't get away from you. And you weren't even alive! So, now you're back, and your gang gets to cuddle you up and hold you, and take care of you. Even the Englishman is on his way here. But I'm still just ol' Spike; live in a crypt and kill demons for food and fun. Do you know, when you were in shock, I wanted to help you so much that I put my arms around you to keep you warm. You made me forget what I am. And I don't think you ever can forget."  
  
Buffy came closer, startled at his outburst, but understanding it completely. She smiled. "You tried to keep me warm?" she asked, touched by the thought, and suddenly much warmer, despite the early-morning chill in the crypt.  
  
Spike raised his arms toward her. "Yea," he replied, "With these two cold, dead arms of mine. All I wanted was a little warmth to give you."  
  
Buffy raised her arms then, reaching out to touch both of his, the gesture burning right through to his heart. "Is this warm?' she asked quietly.  
  
Spike nodded, looking into her face, her eyes, and finding himself unable to speak.  
  
She ran her hands up to his neck, caressing both sides of it gently. "Is this warm?"  
  
"Buffy," Spike managed to say, not knowing if he was going to try to stop her or not. He wasn't up for any torment at the moment, although he was up for other things. So to speak.  
  
"Shhh," she cautioned him. "I said I wanted to thank you, for so many things." She had her hands on his cheeks now, fingertips tracing those glorious cheekbones. "Is this warm?"  
  
"Yes," he whispered.  
  
Buffy pulled his face gently to hers, kissing his lips lightly with her own, hot tongue flicking lightly against his mouth. He moaned at the delicious heat.  
  
Buffy took one of his hands and pressed it to one of her breasts, nipple hardening instantaneously. "Is this warm?" she whispered into his mouth, moaning lightly as his hand tightened on the tender flesh and he brought his other hand down to join it.  
  
She backed him up slowly, up against a wall, deliriously enjoying the feel of his hands on her breasts, intense heat building in her. She pressed the warmth of herself against the coolness of his muscled body, kissing in earnest now, tongue exploring his cool mouth. Buffy moved his arms away from her reluctantly, reaching out to take off his shirt, releasing his lips only momentarily, and coming back to them hungrily. He kissed her ravenously now, after waiting for so long to taste her like this, he was in heaven and thought he would just go insane from the beauty and the heat of her. She reached down to his pants, running a hot hand over his erection, making him moan. "Buffy," he murmured into her mouth, thinking somewhere in the back of his head that if he turned to dust this minute he wouldn't much care.  
  
She opened his pants then and pushed them down to the floor. With a last swirl of her tongue in his mouth she left his lips and began to trail sizzling kisses down his chest and stomach. Spike twisted his hands roughly into her hair, hips moving forward of their own accord, reaching for her. She grabbed the cool marble of his cock and licked the top of it lightly, almost putting him through the wall  
  
"Is this warm?" she whispered, engulfing the huge organ suddenly, surrounding him in such exquisite heat that he was sure he wouldn't be able to contain himself. A few moments of that and he had to stop her. He pulled her head up abruptly, kicking out of his pants, bending over to crush his mouth to hers, picking her up easily and taking her over to his bed, dropping her on the comforters he had thrown there when he got back to the crypt.  
  
He was on top and in as much control as he would ever be able to exert over himself in this situation. To have something warm was beyond description; sure, he had loved Dru, and he had barely tolerated Harmony, but they were as cold as he. This live, warm flesh, this heated Buffy beneath him, was better than he had ever imagined in his fevered Slayer dreams. He was kissing her again, and she was struggling beneath him to get her own clothes off. Spike lifted himself slightly so she would have more leverage, but as soon as she was naked, he growled low in his throat and pressed his body to hers urgently, feeling the warmth there; bodies touching from chest to toes. Buffy managed to get her legs out from under him and wrapped them around his hips tightly, pushing his face down to her breasts, so he could taste them, too. But no more fooling around, she thought.  
  
"Now, Spike," she breathed into his ear, licking it for emphasis. "Do me now."  
  
He didn't need any extra urging, he was about ready to fly apart. He put the tip of his cock between her legs and stopped, wanting to enjoy the tremendous sensation of invading her. She moaned and put her face into his neck and he began to push in, filling her so slowly that she wanted to grab his hips and push him into her, wanted to feel him fill her up. Spike went as slowly as he could, the heat of her branding him, he couldn't believe the feeling, couldn't ever remember feeling anything this good in his life. He buried his face in her neck, teeth resting on the tender flesh there, not biting, cool tongue tasting her until he had his entire cock buried in her. She gasped and held him tightly, then began to move her hips, making him move, too, faster and faster, until she cried out and clenched his back desperately. The hot muscles inside her left him no choice, and he exploded into her, his coolness mingling with her warmth.  
  
He lay against her weakly, more emotionally drained and satisfied than he was physically. Even now, he could imagine having another go soon.  
  
Spike kissed her neck gently. "So, you came to thank me, Pet? You're welcome. Unless you fancy another go 'round."  
  
Buffy laughed and pushed him onto the floor. 


End file.
